


Indistinct and Incomprehensible

by foxmulder_whereartthou



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Blood and Injury, Coffee Dad Sakura Sojiro, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Injury, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parent-Child Relationship, another generic interrogation room fic, be careful!!!!!! theres bad things in here, coffee!! dad!! sojiro!!, im trying, in this house we call the persona 5 protag akira kurusu, pls, sae is ultimate prosecutor mom, saemom, spoilers???, tell me and i will boost up the age rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmulder_whereartthou/pseuds/foxmulder_whereartthou
Summary: Another Interrogation Room Fic. I assume you know what you're in for. Read the tags.Coffee Dad Sojiro and Prosecutor Mom Sae are Best Platonic Parents.In this house we call the Persona 5 Protagonist Akiru Kurusu.





	Indistinct and Incomprehensible

Akira’s wrists were forced into cold, metal cuffs around the back of the chair. He kicked and squirmed, but the men were unforgiving and kicked him back, like a petty child. Thankful to be upright at least, instead of on the dirty floor where an unsettling amount of his blood lay, he looked up only for a fist to collide with his nose. Another punched him in the stomach, and he gasped wetly, vaguely registering the blood now mockingly trickling down his face.

 

The harsh off colour grey of the walls and floor made the room seem like a bland rubix cube, one with no end and no beginning. But Akira had to admit - was this any better than the fluorescent, blinding lights hanging in the hallways? When he’d walked in (or rather, his ‘interrogators’ had thrown him in) the darkened gritty room had been a welcoming invitation, but once he’d known what it felt like to lay, curled up in a distressingly large puddle of his own blood, covered in scratches and dirt from boots and the casual dust of neglected corners, he would rather the merciless luminesce of the hallway. Between the two, the contrast was stunning, even though the two different worlds were divided by a simple metal door. The mud that caked on his shoes had soiled the impractically clean floor when Akira and the men had walked through the labyrinth that was the underbelly of the Police Station, and they’d broken one of his ribs just for that.

 

His body was mottled with bruises by now, and when the men wrenched up the sleeve of his blazer he stared at how the purple and green and yellow swirled and intertwined like some next-gen stupidly overpriced art piece. But - when he saw the glint of the syringe in one of their hands - he half-screamed, what was left of his dignity suddenly cutting off his yell. It was filled with a strange neon orange liquid that, even in the low light of the interrogation room, hurt to look at. Akira fought and struggled, pushing the chair back, but when his knuckles hit the wall and his foot was caught by one of the men, he knew he was done for.

 

Head already pounding from his injuries and blood soaking his turtleneck all over the place, he anticipated in horror of whatever was in that syringe would do to him. Their jeering voices seemed miles away, like he was trapped at the bottom of the ocean. One mockingly beckoned him forward, knowing that Akira wouldn’t be able to do anything in his current state. Grabbing his arm, the man with the syringe slowly, tauntingly pressed the needle to Akira’s skin, the flesh around where it entered already bruising. He had to look away - he’d always hated shots, but this was undoubtedly way worse than when he was a kid.

 

One of the men punched him again and another pulled his hair until he was off the seat of the chair, a hand latched around his throat, finger-shaped marks forming around his neck. After being released and flopping back down, panting fast and hard, trying to get some air into his lungs, he tipped, falling on the floor sideways, still attached to the chair. They kicked him and he peered up to see sneering faces yelling something indiscernible, before wrenching him back upright. Confused tears suddenly filling his eyes, his vision swam, and his head felt like it was full of cotton and bedding. Muttering something incoherent, he blacked out.

 

Soon enough, icy water was thrown on him, making him shiver and jerk back into reality. Red gleam of the camera filling his vision, he hunched and struggled, and knew the worst was yet to come.

 

* * *

As Niijima interrogated him, he slowly came out of his drug-induced stupor, details fading into his vision like a camera lens whirring and focusing. He didn’t even remember what they did to him - because he was even more bruised and bloody and bleeding than before - and that fact absolutely terrified him. Speaking in slow, broken sentences (not giving away his friends, but barely conscious enough to remember the mission) and constantly wary of the camera’s and Niijima’s constant, unwavering gaze, he flinched at every tiny movement. It hurt.

 

Once she left - with the phone, thank god - he finally let himself feel everything. Keeling over, his face against the table, scratches irritated and cheeks reddening from the chill of the metal, it took everything in him not to outright sob. Akira ached, Akira burned, and it was like someone had thrown him into a bath of scalding hot water and then immediately turned on the shower at the coldest setting. He was in conflict with himself - both physically and emotionally - and he just wanted Sojiro. Both of them neglected to discuss it but Kurusu had become somewhat of a son to Sakura, and this whole experience had made Akira just long to be in bed, the morning sun streaming through the musty windows of the attic, the scent of freshly-brewed coffee wafting up to his room and having Sojiro there, with his curry and his smirk, just a couple of steps away.

 

And as he daydreamed, the hazy thoughts of mornings in Leblanc spilling through his brain, he almost forgot about his injuries - just for awhile, mind. But somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he felt- he heard a gunshot ring throughout the interrogation chamber. Darting up, agitating his broken ribs, he turned around wildly in his seat, horrified, until somewhere, deeper still, he sensed the barrel of a gun being placed to his forehead. Scrabbling at his eyes, headache worsening, he wondered if that was his cognitive self - dying alone in an empty chamber, enemies by his figurative bedside, not his friends, not truly knowing if the plan had worked. But now, despite the grey morality of killing a version of himself for the greater good, he knew the plan must’ve gone as planned. Still seemingly phasing in and out of reality, the drugs nowhere near from out of his system, Akira let himself slip into the muddled mess of his barely coherent thoughts. 

 

* * *

And then - somehow - Niijima-san was here again. She was helping him to his feet but everything felt so indistinct and unreal - so he stumbled, cut knees hitting the wall. More tears that he didn’t even know were already there slipped down his cheeks, Akira felt so pathetic and hopeless and vulnerable. Kurusu was the fearless, silently brilliant leader of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts! He wasn’t vulnerable - especially not in front of someone like Niijima. However, it seemed like she was trying to get him out of here, and Akira guessed he would have to rely on her, just this once.

 

* * *

The two of them (but mainly Akira) staggered through the halls, Niijima supporting as much of his weight as she could, and once they miraculously reached the parking garage, she gaped at her palm, red with Akira’s blood. Inconspicuously wiping her hand on her skirt, she unlocked the car and opened the door, only for Kurusu to slump half-heartedly down the side of it, leaning his head back, a suspicious stream of blood drizzling down his lips.

“Get in, Kurusu, it’s okay. If we can get out of here you’ll be safe, they think you’re dead.”

“I-” He wheezed, a grating sound that tore the oxygen from his lungs, “Niijima-san…”

“Please, call me Sae. It’ll be okay. Let’s get you home. Then we can start treating those injuries of yours….” She trailed off, eyebrows furrowing when Akira flinched at the mention of his wounds.

Gently nestling him in the back seat, they drove to Leblanc (where Sojiro was no doubt worried sick), and Sae mused at how young and exposed he looked, curled up, drifting in and out of consciousness. She needed to keep him safe; she needed to get him to Sakura.

 

It was raining hard by the time they’d got there. The shop was strangely closed - and she could see Sojiro sitting at one of the booths, entwined around a cup of coffee. Rain beating down upon them, Sae nervously rapped on the door. A shout of “We’re clos-” came, but then Sojiro saw them, and scrambled with the key, tears in his eyes.

“Kid! I thought you were dead! What happened, I-” But he had to cut himself off again. The kid - his kid - was in a right state, bloody and beaten and crying against Sae’s shoulder. Resisting the urge to tear his eyes away (who would want to see their kid like this?) he pulled the two inside as considerate as he could, shutting the door and flurrying Akira to a booth seat. 

 

“God, kid, what happened to you?” Sae put her hand on the boy’s shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief when he didn’t flinch away. 

“C-Cops.” He stuttered out, eyes still ahaze from the copious amount of drugs coursing through his system. Speaking of which, Sae remembered;

“They gave him some experimental, probably illegal drug. He’s pretty out of it. Do you have a first aid kit, anything here? I want to treat him and get him to bed as soon as possible.” Sae looked at Sakura fixedly, voice wavering when she glanced back at Kurusu.

“I have everything we need back home. Help him upstairs, will you? I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

 

Both of them were hesitant, and both of them were nervous; but they had a collective goal of helping the kid, and that was as good a motivation as any. Quietly hurrying around him, they helped him into bed, bandaged his wounds (which there was a sickening amount of), and made a note to get painkillers as soon as they were absolutely sure the drugs were completely out of his system. Weak, and woozy, Akira didn’t say much, a wet gasp here and there, and once a yelp - which scared and startled the two ‘surrogate parents’ to no end. 

But he was finally in bed - warm, and cozy and finally, undoubtedly safe. Sae stood back as Sojiro kneeled down to take the half-empty cup of tea out of Kurusu’s slack hands as he drifted off, and she could barely make out a, “G’night, Dad,” through the boy’s slurring. A grin decorated Sojiro’s face for just a second, before he stood up and walked over to Sae.

“You should be off. You must have something to do, and I’d recommend you get that blood off your skirt. I’ll keep watch over the kid for now.” 

She chuckled softly, and smiled, sad but hopeful. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

And Sae creaked down the steep attic stairs, the clink of the bell above the door signifying her leave.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Discord. 
> 
> Feedback appreciated!


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